


Wounds of Yesterday

by whiteshadeofpale



Series: Voltron Bingo - Hurt/Comfort [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Reminiscing, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteshadeofpale/pseuds/whiteshadeofpale
Summary: Keith's training with the Blade of Marmora has been progressing steadily, but when he brings a concern to Kolivan about his second-in-command, the Blade Leader finds himself lost in the past.





	Wounds of Yesterday

Keith had never really figured out Antok. All the other Blades on the base had at least warmed up to him in some way. He knew their faces, their mannerisms; like how Inur would only have polished armor on the days when Briv was monitoring the training grounds, and Kolivan could always be found in the halls far past the start of his designated sleep cycle. He’d had some help, admittedly; been shown the ropes and pushed in the right direction a few times. Regris was always willing to lend a hand...or tail.

But Antok, well…

He kept his distance, though he was nowhere near as hostile as he had been the day they met. He’d asked the usual questions to the others, but only received shrugs, or the occasional shake of a head. Ulaz seemed to know something, but had only looked at Keith with what seemed like reluctance.

 

“It’s not my place,” he had said.

 

It didn’t seem like it was  _ anyone’s _ place, going off of how little everyone knew of the large galra. In fact, the only one who did frequently speak with him was Kolivan. Maybe Antok found it difficult to talk? Maybe the mask was some sort of verbal assistance, there was no way his voice was actually that deep and menacing...right? 

Keith didn’t know for sure, but it seemed like he might find out when he mentioned it to Kolivan in passing one day.

 

“He just seems different,” he had commented, as the two of them stood in the observation room, Kolivan having him learn from watching other Blades face off down below. Antok was up against a much smaller Blade that Keith couldn’t recognize from afar, but who seemed to be holding their own. Keith suspected the size difference was meant to relate to him in some way, and it made him wince harder when that Blade was sent flying not a moment later.

 

He looked to Kolivan, noticing the way his shoulder seemed to sit tighter and his frown was heavier than before. 

 

“You know him, though,” he continued, attention split now. “He talks to you, and he’s your second in command.”

 

“Antok is a good Blade,” Kolivan replied, voice betraying nothing. “That said, his situation is unique.”

 

The galra turned to him, looking over him scrutinizingly. “Why are you so interested?”

 

Keith shrugged. “I don’t know. I just..” he looked away, “He’s the only one who still seems to not want me here, I guess.” 

 

“Not want you here?” Kolivan seemed surprised to hear that from him. 

 

“Well, yeah.” He gave another shrug.

 

Kolivan sighed a bit, moving closer to rest a hand on the paladin’s shoulder. “There is no one on this base who does not think you deserve to be here, nor anyone who wishes you harm. Antok simply does not know how to show how he cares, sometimes.”

 

That garnered a half-smile from Keith. Logically he knew that he had earned his right to wear the Blade uniform, and no other Blade would think he was less than. That didn’t mean he didn’t have doubts. 

He looked back out to the training deck, eyes following the powerful movements of the Blade in question for a few moments.

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him with his mask off,” Keith huffed a dry laugh.

 

Kolivan did tense up again then, and sadness took over his features for a moment so brief Keith wasn’t sure it had really been there.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_ The galra pride strength, resourcefulness, intelligence. But above all, they treasured pure blood. This was the truth that had shadowed over Antok’s mind ever since he had been old enough to understand it.  _

_ It was why he had been abandoned here decaphoebs ago, on this grimy swap moon by a mother hoping to escape the burden and prosecution of birthing a tainted son. Alone, and too young to fend for himself, there was nothing for him to do but wander and make the cries of a kit left with nothing but fear and hunger.  _

_ It was lucky then, he supposed, that he had been found by one of the store-owning merchants, and put to work. Non-galra did not care that he was far taller than most his age, or that his-kit fur had been slowly but surely replaced by thick and protective scales. They cared only about how high he could reach and how much he could carry.  _

_ He was useful here. He didn’t mind the work. _

 

_ That was until the soldiers came. _

 

_ It was a pack of young galra, new recruits fresh from their first assignments, whatever they may have been. No one dared stop the rough-housing and disruption they caused around the shops; not when the symbol of the empire gleamed on those uniformed shoulders. _

 

_ They had spotted him within moments of nearing the shop. He remembers every slur they called out, every sneering laugh, each blow they struck against him. He was physically stronger than any one of them, yes, but against these numbers he had stood no chance, untrained as he was. He could do nothing but curl up and try to protect his head from the worst of their onslaught. _

 

_ That was how the galra had found him; bruised and bloody where he was hunched in a shadowed alley. Antok had hissed and shrank back from him, expecting more abuse, but the other stayed back, crouching low to make himself smaller.  _

 

_ “I won't harm you like they did,” he had said, low and calm. _

 

_ Antok’s ears pinned back, not accepting this stranger’s presence for a moment. “So you mean to harm me in other ways? Leave me.” _

 

_ “You’re badly injured. You need medical care,” the other persisted. _

_ “I don’t want your help.” _

 

_ “I didn’t ask if you did.” _

 

_ Vargas later saw him patched up enough to not bleed out, and comfortable enough with the fact that this galra--you may call me Kolivan--was not going to bring any further harm to him, for now at least. _

 

_ Antok knew he couldn’t stay there, the chances of such an encounter happening again were too high for comfort. Besides, he could no longer stand the sight of anyone on that moon, knowing they had all watched him be beaten and done nothing to help. _

 

_ He didn’t know Kolivan, didn’t trust him, but he had no other options and this galra seemed resourceful, if not downright skilled. Antok had gathered what few items of clothing he owned and all the GAC he had saved in a satchel and left with him, not once looking back. _

 

_ Kolivan showed him the Blade, taught him invaluable skills, and watched over him. There was scarcely a time when they were separated, always gravitating toward one another in an orbit so slow they never noticed it happening. They grew together, learned together, fought together. Kolivan made Blade Leader, as everyone knew he would, and named Antok his second. The base held more Blades than it ever had before, and it all felt as though nothing could halt their victories against Zarkon’s evil reign. _

 

_ Until they lost everything. _

 

_ The battleships had come from seemingly nowhere, surrounding the base while fighters decimated everything in sight. The sentries had swarmed them all. Dozens of Blades had been killed, countless more captured and taken aboard ships; no way of knowing where they were being taken, only that they would not survive the trip. Most would find a way to end their life before they could be made to give up any information. The unlucky few would hold out as long as they could, searching for ways to escape or end the torment before they betrayed the safety of their brotherhood. _

 

_ Kolivan stood among the few survivors, searching through the rubble and warped metal for any trapped underneath. They hadn’t yet found any still breathing. He was looking for one body in particular, and never found it. _

 

_ Antok had been taken. _

 

_ It would be phoebs before Kolivan would find any inkling of information on where, and a full decaphoeb before he could gather enough to stage a mission to retrieve him. He would go alone, not willing to ask any others to risk their life for what may already be too late; breaking the protocol followed by the blade since its founding. _

 

_ He would find him, body broken and mind torn apart, but still alive. It would take almost three times longer than the time Antok had been prisoner to completely heal his bones, and twice that to mend his mind as much as they could. Some things remained. The notch in his tail, the missing plates on his back, his face would never be the same. His fingers and knees would never move the same, and sometimes when Kolivan walked the halls lost in his own plaguing thoughts he would hear the results of feverish nightmares. _

 

_ But he would find him. _

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Kolivan?”

 

The Blade Leader blinked back into awareness, surprised that he had gotten so distracted. He looked over Keith where he stood beside him, the half-galra’s brows scrunched in a combination of worry and confusion. 

 

“Do not worry over Antok,” he said, in lieu of explanation. “But if you wish to ask something of him, perhaps it is best to go to him yourself.” 

 

“Maybe I will,” Keith replied, still eyeing Kolivan as if he could find out what he had been thinking just by reading it from his posture. 

 

“He would appreciate it, I’m sure.”  _ And,  _ Kolivan thought as he watched the sparring rounds end and saw Antok’s massive form shift to look up to where they stood,  _ maybe they both would feel as if they belonged for a moment, if only that slight bit more. _

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've ever written that was not an essay of some sort, and it kind of ran away from me.  
> This is my fill for the Voltron Bingo H/C card, for "scars".
> 
> I hope you enjoyed. :)


End file.
